


All that Blood was never once Beautiful

by hideyourfires



Series: All that Blood was never once Beautiful [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, End Game, First Kiss, Fluff, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 00:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14366922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideyourfires/pseuds/hideyourfires
Summary: “If you won’t let me help,” He hisses, “Why are you telling me this?”When he first met Molly, Caleb had found it difficult to decipher his facial expressions. Everything else about him had been too distracting, too many bright colours and bits of dangling jewellery. There was too much of him, all at once, and Caleb hadn’t known what to make of it.Since then, he has learned to see through it. He knows now that that is its purpose; to distract. Because sometimes,sometimes, Molly looks very young, and vulnerable, and afraid.Molly looks up at him, suddenly small, his lips a thin line.“I don’t want be alone,” He says.





	All that Blood was never once Beautiful

The sky is a burning red, thick black clouds of smoke and dust swirling ominously. This is it. The end of the line.

They burst into the mansion, stumbling into the foyer and collapsing in a heap on the floor. It had taken every last ounce of magic Caleb had left in him to summon it.

It’s a library, because of course it is. It’s the safest place Caleb can imagine. The walls are lined with bookshelves, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. They are the books he read as a child, spellbooks, even the tawdry smut Jester has occasionally gifted him, all memorised and slotted away. The spines are broken and cracked, the pages well worn, despite their very matter coming into existence only moments ago. He likes books that look like they have been read. It is often the most damaged tomes that have been the best loved.

Yasha lowers the bloodied Beau to the ground, and Jester leans over her. Her fingers spark with a thin trickle of magic. Fjord lays a comforting hand on her, rubbing slow circles on her lower back, his lips pulled into a taut line. Nott reaches up and takes Yasha’s hand. Yasha smiles down at her, softly, before her eyes are naturally pulled back to Beau.

A hand clasps his shoulder. He already knows who it is; he can see lilac in the periphery of his vision, feel gold rings digging in through his clothing. He looks up anyway.

“Caleb,” Molly says. “Can I have a word?”

There is something – off – about him. A strain in his easy smile.

“Uh, ja.” Caleb drags himself to his feet. Molly doesn’t move, so he is in surprisingly close proximity when Caleb turns around to face him. “What is it?”

“In private,” Molly intones.

Caleb frowns, but doesn’t question it. He glances over the others – they seem preoccupied. With one last glance at Beau, he follows Molly into the study.

Molly leans, casually, on the back of the desk chair. As soon as the door clicks shut behind Caleb, however, his legs buckle underneath him. He stumbles, falling, failing to clutch anything to hold himself upright. Caleb rushes forward to catch him.

“Sheisse!” He hisses, steadying him. He pulls one of Molly’s arms over his shoulder, and rests his other hand on his abdomen. The linen underneath his fingers is warm and damp. Molly winces, his stomach muscles going tense under Caleb’s hand. Caleb’s eyes go wide with horror. He stares at him. “You’re _injured_.”

Leaning Molly against the edge of the desk, he pulls his coat aside. His shirt clings to his skin, wet, slick with something dark. Caleb’s eyes go wide, pupils flickering over the bloody mess, taking it all in.

Molly licks his lips. “Caleb,” He says.

Caleb barely hears him. “I’ll get Jester.”

“Caleb, stop.” Molly clings to Caleb’s sleeve. “You can’t.” There is very little strength in his grasp; he is more hanging off Caleb than holding him. He grimaces. “Jester is out of spells.”

Caleb feels something prickling underneath his skin. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Beau needed it.”

“So take a potion!” He snaps, his voice urgent.

“No. We need every last potion for tomorrow.”

“We also need you _alive_ , Mollymauk.” He rummages through his coat, pulls out the glass flask Nott had given to him and holds it out. “Here. Please. Take it.”

Molly shakes his head. “Not till I need it. Not till the last minute.”

“It _is_ the last minute.” He pushes it toward him, against his chest. “ _Take it_.”

Molly does not take it. Doesn’t even look at it. His face is strained, but set.

“I’ll last the night,” He says, softly.

Anger. That’s what it is, prickling him. That is what Caleb has decided. He shakes with it, his hands curling into useless fists.

“If you won’t let me help,” He hisses, “Why are you telling me this?”

When he first met Molly, Caleb had found it difficult to decipher his facial expressions. Everything else about him had been too distracting, too many bright colours and bits of dangling jewellery. There was too much of him, all at once, and Caleb hadn’t known what to make of it.

Since then, he has learned to see through it. He knows now that that is its purpose; to distract. Because sometimes, _sometimes_ , Molly looks very young, and vulnerable, and afraid.

Molly looks up at him, suddenly small, his lips a thin line.

“I don’t want be alone,” He says. His voice is rough, silk over gravel. “And I – I can’t–––” He holds out his hands, and they are pale and shaking. More useless than Caleb’s own.

Caleb sags. “What do you need me to do?”

He sends a servant for bandages, scissors, alcohol. He doesn’t like using them, usually, even if they’re not real; there’s something that makes him uncomfortable about giving out orders, asking others to do things he could easily do himself, but he doesn’t really want to leave Molly on his own while he stumbles around searching for the items, and the servant’s spectral form is perhaps more inconspicuous than his own.

He helps ease Molly out of his coat, setting it aside, before gingerly pulling the blood-soaked linen of his shirt away from his skin. Molly shifts uncomfortably. He ends up cutting him out of it; between the wound at his abdomen and his horns, Caleb figures it’s probably better this way. There is a weak smirk on Molly’s face as he does it.

“If I had known all I had to do to get you to take my clothes off was get stabbed, I would have done it years ago.”

Caleb doesn’t laugh. He is too busy looking at the bloody hole in his abdomen. It’s an ugly thing. Messy, as though whoever plunged the blade into him had twisted it, widening the puncture. His hands clench, clutching the alcohol-soaked rag, his muscles going tense to stop trembling.

“You are an idiot, Mollymauk.” His voice is cold, sharp, the words tasting like poison in his mouth. When he looks up to see Molly’s face, however, pale and tight-jawed, all anger dissipates entirely, giving way to the hopelessness beneath it. Something inside him crumples. “This is not how I wanted our last night to go.”

There is a pause, and Caleb worries he has said too much. He doesn’t dare look up. He stares straight down, lips tight, face burning.

When Molly speaks, at last, his voice sounds – careful. Practiced and precise, as though it has been measured. As though he already knows the answer, and is bracing himself to hear it. “You don’t think we’re getting out of this?”

“This is how these things go, ja?” Caleb says, quietly. He doesn’t look at him, just stays focused on his work. “Some of us die. I have a feeling it might be me.”

A hand touches Caleb under his chin, tipping his head back. Molly looks down at him. His expression is grave, graver than he remembers ever seeing it.

“Listen to me, Caleb.” He says, red eyes boring into him. “You are not going to die. I won’t let that happen.” His hand feels cool on Caleb’s burning skin. He can feel his elegant fingers, his nails, the cold metal of his rings, all the things that make the hand Molly’s.

It would be reassuring, Caleb thinks, if he couldn’t see the way his other hand clutches the edge of the desk with white knuckles.

“In this state?” He asks, his voice low.

“Yes.” Molly responds. “Especially in this state.”

Caleb freezes under his touch. He pulls himself away, stands up, stares. He shakes his head, slowly.

“I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself for me, Mollymauk.”

Molly’s face breaks into its usual smile. “So that’s how it is, is it?” His voice is teasing, playful. “First to die is a rotten egg.”

“You are not funny.”

Molly does his best impression of a shrug. “You have no sense of humour.”

Caleb can feel the trembling rising in him again, and he battles to keep it out of his voice.

“Is it any wonder,” He says, forcing his words out in an attempt to keep them even, “When you are so desperate to throw yourself into danger?”

Molly opens his mouth to respond when his expression freezes. He blinks – blinks a lot – and raises a hand to his forehead. He sways slightly, and Caleb just manages to catch him in time before he pitches over. He holds him upright until he gathers himself again, shaking his head as though to dispel the fog in his mind.

“Are you alright?” Caleb asks.

Molly nods, his eyes sliding closed. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just a little light-headed.”

Caleb grabs the flask and holds it out, more determined than ever.

“You will take this,” He says, “Or I will pour it onto the floor.”

Molly peers at him through one eye, smiling. “And spoil the carpet?”

Caleb keeps his lips pulled straight, the flask not wavering in his hand.

Molly leans back against the desk, the smile slipping from his face. When he speaks, his voice is heavy. “It might be the last thing standing between us winning and losing. I won’t be at fault for the apocalypse. No thank you.”

He regards Caleb, watching his expression. “I’m right,” He says.

Caleb lowers his arm. He sets the potion aside, rubs his face with his hand. He is suddenly very tired. He wants to lie down. He wants to be somewhere else, where this can’t touch him. He wants to go back. He wants time to stop, and for tomorrow to never come. He wants his cat. Gott, he wants his fucking cat.

Instead, he goes down on his knees and begins bandaging Molly’s wound. It’s not perfect – he’s not a healer, and his hands are shaking a little – but it should hold. He stares at it, at his shoddy handiwork. The ugly knots and bloody fingerprints. It’s miserable, really. Like him.

Caleb closes his eyes.

Molly rests a hand on his shoulder. “Caleb,” He says, softly. “How did you want our last night to go?”

There have been nights among the Nein when Caleb has felt it.

He can hear Jester’s voice, teasing. Not her words – it’s not the words that matter. It’s the joy in her pitch, the way the light glitters in her eye. Nott, bright-eyed and mischievous, joining in on the hijinks. Fjord, leaning back in his seat, a slow smile on his face. Yasha, sitting quietly, her presence a pillar of comfort. Looming, in a companionable way. Beau, grumpy and awkward but _whole_. And Molly. Sparkling, flirting, luxurious Molly. Drunk and ridiculous and loud. His voice low, rumbling velvet in his ear. His own face flushing at the sound of it.

Warmth. True warmth, like no other. He is overwhelmed by it. It glows hot in his chest when he looks at them. How lucky he is to have this, to love them, to be allowed to love them, and to feel that love in return. To know that, even on the fringe, reading or just having a quiet drink, he is one of them. Those nights are bathed in gold in his memory.

Tonight, though. Tonight is bloody.

“Not like this,” Caleb says. He doesn’t look at him. “Not angry.”

Molly’s hand squeezes his shoulder.

“Come on,” He says. “Let’s join the others.”

Caleb wraps an arm around his waist, and Molly leans much of his weight against him, helping him toward the door.

When they reach it, and push it open, he is surprised to be met with the soft glow of candlelight. In the middle of the foyer there is a nest of books and bed covers, cushions and candles, and bodies all curled around each other. It’s halfway between a pillow fort and a shrine. Beau is at the heart of it, still lying in the place where Yasha lowered her. They seem to have formed the fort around her.

Molly lets out a surprised little laugh. “Well, this is unexpected.”

“Come on,” Caleb says. His voice cracks.

There is a place laid out for them, a few pillows and cushions and blankets lying spare beside where Jester is starfished, half of her limbs flung over Fjord’s sleeping form. He lowers Molly down first, then carefully makes his way through the tangled heap over to the pink backpack that is slumped by Jester’s boots. He reaches his hand inside and thinks of the deep crimson shirt Molly had worn once. It’s formal, from the time they had attended that royal ball. It had ended in disaster, as all things that came into contact with the Nein so often did, but he remembers the shirt. He remembers Molly, dressed exquisitely, murmuring awful things with a smirk. He remembers gritting his teeth, his face hot. It’s the first shirt that came to mind, for some reason.

“Well,” Molly laughs, seeing it, “Won’t I be the belle of the ball tomorrow.”

He helps Molly into it, buttoning it up halfway and – maddeningly – tucking it into his pants. He can feel Molly’s eyes on him as he does it, the quirk of his lips. Caleb burns. He is avoiding his gaze, shuffling blankets and arranging pillows, when Molly lays his hand on his arm.

“Caleb,” He says, gently. His other hand brushes against his face, before coming to rest on his neck. His thumb brushes his earlobe. “Thank you.”

And then he kisses him. Just lips on lips, and only softly. Caleb’s bones feel like liquid, like he’s melting, like there’s nothing left of him but a squirming puddle. When Molly pulls away, he seems pretty pleased with this result.

He runs his hand through Caleb’s hair, his fingers grazing his scalp. There is a smug smile on his face. “Is this more what you were imagining?”

Caleb takes it in, all of it. The candlelight, glinting off the gold in his ears, on his horns. The cushions and blankets and books piled high around him. His friends, sleeping soundly. Safe. For now. And Molly, looking at him like that. The ghost of a kiss on his lips.

“Yes,” He whispers. “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @sarahgotbored


End file.
